


Costume

by TheArchaeologist



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android Racism, Angst, Blood, Connor Deserves Happiness, CyberLife (Detroit: Become Human), Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Halloween, Hank hates Trick or Treaters, Like a Grump, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Mentions of Amanda, Self-Reflection, Swearing, anger issues, but no comfort, but with elements of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 07:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16214114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArchaeologist/pseuds/TheArchaeologist
Summary: It’s Halloween, and humans have a fascination with monsters that Connor doesn't understand. One thing he does know all too well, however, if the idea of what's 'frightening'.All Hank wants is just to be left in peace.





	Costume

Monsters.

It was a word that was directed at Connor multiple times a week, depending on the case, who they were interviewing, and, more often than not, who they were arresting. Other descriptions often accompanied it, subhuman, abomination, fake, typically spat in his face with an intense hatred and a cruel glare.

Humans have a confusing relationship with monsters. They fear them, yet love them. They talk of horror and gore and treachery, but also romance and dominance and misunderstandings. It had taken all of **00:00:27** for Connor to stumble upon certain websites describing a hundred different sexual acts committed by a hundred different kinds of ‘monster’. The people in the comments section seemed to have no fear of the disturbing scenes, and actively encouraged the creators for more.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Connor!” Hank appeared out of thin air beside him, all but flinging Connor away from the screen so he could lean across the desk and close the tab. “Why the flying fuck are you looking at _that?”_

The wheels of his computer chair roll from the shove, and Connor puts his feet down to stop it. “I was researching monsters, Lieutenant.” He supplies simply. “That was one of the first results.”

Hank groans, running a hand over his face. “Right. Ok. And this is relevant to the case because?”

“We are on our break, so this has no relevance.” Connor frowns. “You’re always telling me I should use my breaks to do what I like, so I thought-”

“You know what? I don’t want this conversation. I’m too sober.” Hank slouches down his seat, reaching for his mug of coffee. “If you wanna look up demon porn, who am I to stop you?”

The human fascination with monsters increases tenfold as the months draw near the end of the year, and as they enter October orange and black decorations of bats and spiders and pumpkins start to litter the shop and streets. Some of the houses on their road put up stickers of sharp-eyed cats in their windows or hang plastic witches and broomsticks from the upper floors. Hank just nails a large ‘No trick or treaters, young baby asleep’ on his door. 

“I never took you for an infant, Hank.” Connor teases lightly, watching Hank faff around with pins and sellotaped. 

Hank sends an unimpressed look his way, “Har har, you’re hilarious.” 

“I do try.” Sumo pads out of the house, sitting in the doorway to watch Hank with Connor, who pats his head. “So…What _are_ you doing?”

“Your big computer brain not know Halloween?”

“No, I know it.” He corrects, scratching Sumo’s ears. “But I thought the idea of trick or treating was supposed to be encouraged? So far, all my sources have discussed how to do it.”

Hank sticks his tongue out as he pulls a ribbon of tape. “Yeah, which is great if you want people coming up to your door all fricking night.”

“You don’t?”

“Hell no. It was enough just taking Cole out; I don’t want to encourage a ton of sugar-high brats onto my property.”

“I see.”

Come Halloween night, Connor finds the streets packed with children running around in variously gruesome costumes, tailed by tired and fed up older siblings who would rather be anywhere else. A house down the road is hosting a party, the music audible from inside the living room. Connor suggests reporting it.

Hank snorts, drawing the curtains tightly closed. “Don’t even think about it. They’ll know who it was in an instant, and we’ll get all the asshole teenagers throwing eggs at the house all night.”

“But they are breaking-”

“No, Connor. Leave them be.”

Hank has insisted that they keep the lights switched off, leaving the house in almost total darkness save for a lamp in the kitchen, a torch in the bathroom, and the glow from Hank’s phone. 

“Is this all really necessary?” 

“Yup.” Hank replies, settling on the couch, Sumo on his lap. He scrolls along a sports article. “Just enjoy it. Watch videos in your brain or whatever.”

Connor has learnt to enjoy many things, but ‘watching videos in his brain’ was never one of them. Instead, he closes his eyes and runs through the results of a search for ‘Halloween’, sifting through various discussions on the fact.

“Werewolf costumes are reportedly popular this year.” He informs, skimming through the data. “And sales of zombie costumes are down.”

“Thrilling.” Hank drones tonelessly, barely listening.

“Did you ever dress up, Hank?”

He hears Hank stretch, sinking further down the couch. Sumo huffs and readjusts. “I was never into monsters. Found cars far cooler.”

“I see. So you dressed up as a car, then?” A long beat of silence passes between them. “Hank?”

“Hm?”

“I asked if you dressed up as a car instead.”

“Oh, no.”

Sighing, Connor opens one eye, finding Hank fully engrossed in whatever he is reading. “I apologise for not being more entertaining company.”

Hank doesn’t look away from his device. “That’s alright.”

“I never knew elephants could be pink.”

“The more you know.”

“I think we should change Sumo’s name to ‘Thumbelina’.”

“Go for it.”

“ _Hank_.”

Startling at the louder tone, Hank pops his head up, finally making eye contact with Connor. “Hm? What?”

“You’re not listening to me.”

“Sure I am.” Hank argues, a guilty lop-sided grin on his face. “I was replying.”

“Ok, then I’ll fill in the required documents and Sumo’s name change will be fulfilled.”

Hank’s smile drops, and he wraps an arm around Sumo protectively. “Wait, what’re we calling my dog?” When Connor says nothing, instead only raising an eyebrow pointedly, Hank deflates and clears his throat. “Alright, I ain’t listening. It’s just…” He waves a hand at his phone, “It’s interesting. I’ll listen after, I promise.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Really!”

Humming, Connor closes his eyes again, resuming his paused search into all things Halloween. He hears the _thunk_ of Hank crossing his feet on the coffee table. Outside, excited chatter echoes around the roads.

Suddenly, Hank asks. “What would you wear?” 

“What would I wear?”

“If you were dressing up for Halloween, what would you go as?” Hank’s phone clicks as he types something. “Ponder that for, say, ten minutes. Silently.”

Connor makes an unimpressed noise in the back of his throat, “Thanks, Hank.”

“You’re fucking welcome.”

For the sake of entertaining himself while Hank is busy with whatever he’s reading, Connor pulls up the first costume website he can find, skipping through the home page to find the seasonal offers. Clothes of purple and green, lace and lycra fill his processor, all sorts of cartoonish characters and creatures standing in their respective boxes. Deadly nurses, comedy outfits, and, most of all, monsters.

Mummies, vampires, ghosts, all of them are depicted in some garish and grizzly fashion, fake blood dripping from festering wounds and weaponry wedged into heads and arms. In fact, this website has a specific ‘monster’ tag, and when he selects it Connor finds himself delving deeper and deeper into a mess of boils and guts and bile.

And then, amongst it all, is an android.

It throws him for a complete loop. He practically jumps at the sight of it.

It’s…Well, it’s a mock of Markus.

Not enough to be completely, and Connor suspects _legally_ , obvious, but the comparisons are there. The ruffles clothing, the stains of Thirium, the fake LED that’s stuck to the man’s head, though now he studies it the outfit and makeup have more in common with Ralph than the deviant leader. Underneath the image, Connor reads the tags.

#Android #Halloween #Sale #Monster #Adult

**Monster:**

**• a large, ugly, and frightening imaginary creature**

Connor is not large for his model. In fact, Markus is slightly taller by half an inch. He would not necessarily say that he would be classed as ‘ugly’ either, as CyberLife had fashioned his aesthetic appearance to allow him to blend into a working environment. He had heard more comments that he looked like ‘a kicked puppy’ than anything else, unless he had misread that statement and it was, in fact, an insult.

 _Frightening_ , however, was Connor.

Jericho had been terrified of him and his presence when Connor had infiltrated the ship, dubbing him ‘The Deviant Hunter’, openly fearing for their lives if they ever crossed paths; unaware that the very android they were discussing was walking behind them. 

Humans too had found Connor’s presence the cause of despair. When he was still a machine, it was because they weren’t sending a real person to save a little girl, or because he was an apparent threat towards humanity. After deviation, it was because he led an army of androids through the streets of Detroit, because his actions were part of a whole that forced people to evacuate, leaving homes and lives behind.

And he knew he could be frightening. There were cases, on occasion, that rattled him, that caught the wrong end of a raw nerve and forced his hands into becoming more forceful, his tone harsher, and his eyes to alight like a wolf on the scent of blood. Hank had commented on it only once.

“It’s fucking creepy as shit when you’re like that.” He had told Connor as they drove back from an arrest.

“He _murdered_ twenty-six android children, Hank, for months.” Connor had snapped back, coin violently flicking back and forth. “Don’t expect me to be gentle.” 

“I ain’t expecting you to be treating him like a daisy. I’m just saying. It’s freaky.”

Connor couldn’t help it. When CyberLife had designed him, he was engineered to be the best. He was the fittest, smartest, the most agile of all their specialised creations. Commercially there were those who were larger, the TR400s for example, but what they had in muscle Connor matched in intelligence. He was created as a detective, he entire _purpose_ relied on his processor power.

So when it came to the bad cases, the ones that made careered police officers vomit into outside bins and news reporters question the state of the world in which they live, Connor’s entire being went into complete overdrive. Everything about him screamed for him to solve the case, to catch the criminal and administer swift justice before more victims had the chance of falling into dark and lonely graves. 

He would sit up at night sometimes, practically buzzing with pent up energy, because the slowly forming android work laws dictated that he was not allowed to bring his work home, the same way Hank was banned from doing so, meaning he couldn’t re-evaluate evidence, or question suspects, or even access his files on his computer in the department, leaving him to patiently _wait_ until the following morning.

He was a product of his creators, and it was very clear how they regarded the world.

Who sent a _prototype_ to a hostage situation involving a child, anyway? It had just been another experiment to them, another lab test on their new and shiny model. A small part of Connor doubted they even knew Emma’s name.

CyberLife were cold. They were calculating and manipulative and two-faced, and Connor was exactly that when on _those_ cases. He would wangle his way into the suspect’s good books, go undercover in seedy establishments, would say all the right things to earn a criminal’s trust and friendship, ready to snap his jaws when they take one wrong move, do one thing out of line, and crush them like bone.

To the lowlifes of Detroit, he was their Amanda.

“Hey, you decided yet?”

Connor opens his eyes, his teeth working together hard.

“Connor?”

“I won’t choose a costume, Hank.” He states, standing. “I don’t need one.”

“Well, sure you’re a little old, but I was just talking hypothetical- Hey, where’re you going?”

Connor is already halfway across the room. “It’s late. I’m going to go to bed. Goodnight Hank.”

“Oh. Well, night then.”

**Author's Note:**

> *Dumps this and runs away to the tune of Spooky Scary Skeletons*


End file.
